


Sixteen Days

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For sixteen days, Greg was kept in solitary confinement. But it's the following months which are the real torture, not just for him, but for Sherlock, who has offered him a bed at 221b.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen Days

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events at the end of season three, though it doesn't reference it much. Warnings for references to torture, PTSD and other ill-effects as a result of psychological torture.

They found him on the 16th day.

Several years later, Greg Lestrade would come to describe the day as the end of hell on earth, and the beginning of something much more difficult.

Two of Mycroft’s best MI5 agents carried out their work with expert focus when they took out the man who had kidnapped Greg from the pavement outside his favourite pub.

It took an hour after the kidnapper’s death for them to find Greg.

Just 16 days earlier, Sherlock had stepped off a plane to Moriarty’s face appearing on television screens across the country. That day, Greg had been taken. Sherlock had used all the resources at his disposal at Bart’s to sift through evidence and it took up a significant amount of Mycroft’s time too.

And finally they found him.

The building he was kept captive in was a former printing press just outside of London. The concrete floor was stained in various ink colours, the room dark and nearly empty.

And Greg. Greg was curled up on a bare mattress in the centre of the small room. There was a toilet and a sink to one side, beside a large tap, fixed higher up on the wall, used as a makeshift shower.

“Oh God,” Sherlock heard John murmur from beside him as they finally caught sight of him lying there.

Greg looked so thin, so impossibly small. “Go away,” he said, his voice hoarse as he flung out one arm, gesturing for John, Sherlock and Mycroft to leave. “Just go away.”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said softly, taking a step closer to the mattress.

“Go,” Greg said. “I know you’re not real.”

“Sherlock, we can’t waste time,” Mycroft said, falling into step beside him “We have to get him into an ambulance. We’ll drag him there if we have to.”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “He’s been through enough, I’m not forcing him out of anywhere. I won’t be his enemy.”

He took a few more careful steps towards him. Greg didn’t look as though he’d showered in the past few days, but he had obviously done so before now. He was wearing different clothes to the ones he’d worn in the CCTV images at the pub, so his kidnapper had evidently kept him clothed. And fed. And watered. There were two plates on the floor. One meal was half eaten. The other looked as though only a bite had been taken from it.

Sherlock swallowed and lowered himself down onto the cold floor. Greg’s eyes were open, but he seemed to be seeing right through him.

“Lestrade? You okay?” Sherlock asked.

He was so gaunt. Unshed tears threatened to spill at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re not real,” Greg said, covering his eyes with one shaking hand.

“I am,” Sherlock said. He reached out and found Greg’s other hand, taking hold of it in both of his own. His hand was ice cold and shaking. “Feel this?” Sherlock asked. “Look, I’m here.”

“Always feels real,” Greg mumbled, his voice trembling. “It never is. Always just a lie.”

“I am here,” Sherlock repeated. “I am here. Right now.”

“It’s never you,” Greg whispered. “Cold… so cold, Sherlock. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Let’s just get out of here.”

“I should have said… should have told you… I wish you were here. I just need to… to tell you…”

“I am here. Greg,” Sherlock whispered, gripping his cold hand tightly. “Please, we need to get you out of here now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Lean on me,” Sherlock whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m real. You’ve got to try and sit up now.”

Greg dropped his hand from his eyes. Silent tears spilled down his cheeks. Sherlock pressed his lips together, his chest aching at the sight of him. Not Greg. Of all the people to break, it wasn’t ever supposed to be Greg. He was the only strong one of all of them. Not Greg. Why Greg?

Sherlock sat down beside him on the mattress and wrapped an arm around Greg’s shoulders, easing him up slowly to a sitting position. Greg was staring at the wall in front of them, both hands trembling.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured. “Do you need a hand?”

“I’ve got this,” Sherlock said, biting his lip. Greg was in his protection, and he was going to sort this out himself. He owed him this much. He heard the sound of ambulance sirens outside.

“I’ll tell them we’re in here,” John said, and Sherlock listened to his retreating footsteps.

“What’s happening?” Greg whispered. “Why are you doing this?”

Sherlock squeezed his shoulders, taking hold of Greg’s hand with his other one. “I’m making you safe,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

Greg dropped his head and covered his face with his hands. Sherlock stayed sitting beside him as the paramedics followed John in. They covered his mouth with an oxygen mask and measured his heart rate. It took them 10 minutes to convince him to lie down on the stretcher.

“I’m going in the ambulance,” Sherlock informed John and Mycroft. “Meet me at the hospital.”

They both nodded and headed for Mycroft’s car.

Greg didn’t open his eyes during the journey. Sherlock sat at his side, giving one word answers to the paramedics’ questions about his medical history. No known food allergies. He was allergic to a brand of fabric softener, though Sherlock had no idea why he knew that. No known allergies to drugs, including penicillin. Healthy. Greg had always kept himself in shape and he took care of himself. Sometimes he drank too much alcohol, sometimes he had too much caffeine and sometimes he ate too many takeaways. But he was healthy. Greg was always so strong.

But not now. Not after those 16 days of goodness knows what. It took all of Sherlock’s strength to get out of the ambulance and watch as Greg was taken inside the hospital.

Sherlock stood outside of the building, unable to walk in just yet. He stared up at the sky, the night beginning to draw in now. He watched his breath on the air, pulling his coat more tightly around himself.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Greg was close to hypothermia. Certainly malnourished. Sleep deprived. It seemed as though he may have been hallucinating prior to their arrival.

He looked up as John stood beside him.

“Have you seen him?” Sherlock asked.

“Just popped in for a sec. Mycroft’s talking to a doctor now. They’ve got him on fluids, but he’s fast asleep now. Sleep deprived.”

“Yeah, that was my assessment too,” Sherlock agreed, watching as an ambulance drove out of the car park, sirens blazing.

John shook his head. “I’ve never seen anyone like that.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. And even worse, it was Greg.

“What now?” John asked.

“He can’t live by himself,” Sherlock said, frowning. He reached into his coat pocket and took out his keys. He located the key to Greg’s flat and took it off, handing it to John. Greg had given him the key years ago, for whenever he needed anything. It had been years since Sherlock had used it, but he’d never been inclined to give it back. He was glad he hadn’t. “Here’s his key. Go to his flat and collect his clothes and anything else, pictures of his daughter, anything you think he might need. And then go to Baker Street and make up the other room.”

“Anything else?” John asked.

“No, that’s it for now.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m going to wait with him. He can’t be alone when he wakes up.”

John nodded. “It’ll be a few days until they release him.”

“I know,” Sherlock murmured. “But I want everything ready for him when he does get out.”

“Are you sure you’re the best person for this, Sherlock? I know you want to help. But. Maybe he’ll like his own place?”

“I think he’ll protest a bit,” Sherlock admitted, frowning. He hadn’t given it much thought, but it seemed the only option. “But you saw him. How can I let him go back to live by himself? Maybe it’ll only be for a few weeks.”

John nodded and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’ll get everything done by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you. Give my love to Mary.”

John managed a smile. “Give both our love to Greg. When he wakes up.”

Sherlock nodded and watched as John walked through the car park. Sherlock sighed, slipping his keys back into his pocket. He turned and wandered back into the hospital.

He found Mycroft stood outside Greg’s room. One of Mycroft’s security detail was also stood in the corridor. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Is he for you or Lestrade?” he asked.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft said. “I think he’s safe now, but I’m not taking any chances.”

Sherlock nodded, for once relieved to have his brother around.

“You’re considering taking him in,” Mycroft said with a frown.

“I’m done considering it,” Sherlock replied. “I’ve already told John to get everything sorted out.”

“Are you sure that’s such a good idea? You’ve been tortured yourself, Sherlock. Are you sure this is healthy for you?”

“It makes me the best person to deal with this.”

“We could get him into a proper facility,” Mycroft said evenly. “Somewhere with professionals.”

“No,” Sherlock said, his voice sharp. “He needs to be where he knows people.”

“Sherlock, you are not going to be able to help him. I’m not saying this to be unkind. I’m saying it because you don’t always know what comforting things to give to people in need.”

Sherlock sighed and stared through the small window in the door, to where Greg lay with tubes in his arms. “I know,” he murmured. “But he needs me. Do you remember how many times he sat next to me in hospital? If I can’t do this one thing for him then…”

“You already found him and you saved his life,” Mycroft pointed out. “Your role in this is over. Let the professionals look after him.”

“No. He’s living at Baker Street.”

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. Just tell me what you need. We might have to add locks on the windows and on the doors at Baker Street.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

“Because he won’t be the same man you knew, Sherlock, and we don’t know how he’s going to cope with day to day life when he wakes up. I’ll provide you with all the research I can find on the subject.”

“Thank you.”

“He will need to see a counsellor.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

Mycroft sighed and turned to look through the door. “I’ll let you know what we find in the kidnapper’s diaries. And I will send Anthea for some clothes for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Think this through, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “Don’t do this because you feel guilty. You have a few days to think it over.”

Sherlock nodded absently, but he knew his mind was already made up. “What’s the verdict?” he asked.

“He hasn’t got hypothermia,” Mycroft said. “I think the heating may have remained on while the kidnapper was alive, so although it was cold when we arrived, it wasn’t always that way. He needs a lot of sleep. He needs to eat. But his physical health is easily repaired. It’s his mental state which is far more fragile.”

“Get me everything you can,” Sherlock said. “Any books, research… details of everything he went through.”

“I’ll see it done this evening.”

Sherlock nodded and carefully turned the handle to Greg’s room and stepped inside. Mycroft didn’t follow, so he closed the door and took a seat beside Greg’s bed.

It was strange for it to be this way around. Sherlock was so often the one in the hospital bed, concerned faces usually gazing at him. So many times, Greg had sat at Sherlock’s bedside, both at a hospital or his home, holding onto his hand while he recovered from overdoses and withdrawal.

Sherlock did the same now, taking hold of Greg’s right hand in both of his.

He looked so fragile. His wrinkles were deeper than they’d been when Sherlock last saw him, 17 days ago. He’d lost so much weight. Sherlock kept hold of his hand, relieved to feel how much warmer it was than earlier.

He spent time just thinking. Remembering the days when Greg would take care of him when he was high or coming down. All those times Greg had rushed to his aid without a second thought. Those times Sherlock had asked for help, only for it to be for something innocuous like a best man’s speech. But Greg always came.

Anthea arrived two hours later with some books and scientific journals on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, examinations of various methods of torture and its impact on the victims.

The following morning, Mycroft brought some breakfast for Sherlock and grapes for Greg. He hadn’t woken yet, and Mycroft took a seat beside Sherlock.

“The kidnapper kept thorough diaries of everything he put Lestrade through,” Mycroft informed him.

“Tell me,” Sherlock said.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I need to know. I need to understand what happened.”

“Very well. When they first took him, they gave him a routine. He was woken in the morning by a bright light, given breakfast and access to the shower for three minutes. Then they would turn the lights out until dinner. For the first few days, he kept well. He sung and talked to himself. He was kept in the dark, but he seemed to be coping well, considering the circumstances. For the first few days, he shouted for someone to tell him what was going on. When no one did, he gave up asking.

“It didn’t take long for him to become quiet. He didn’t eat as much. Four days after they took him, they stole his routine from him. They began waking him for breakfast at all sorts of hours. He lost all sense of time. They began to use flickering lights and loud noises. Occasionally they turned the heating off. He was only in there for 16 days, Sherlock. But that’s more than enough time to strip someone apart. He was sleep-deprived, void of human contact. They delivered his food via a hatch and pulled it back through with a piece of string. He hallucinated, he was confused, and he had tremors in his hands. He stopped eating as much. No one ever told him why he was there. No one ever tried to extract information from him.”

“Then why take him?” Sherlock asked.

“To bother you,” Mycroft said.

“I’m more than bothered,” Sherlock muttered.

“Are the books informative enough for you?”

Sherlock nodded. “They are. Can you take them back though? I don’t want Lestrade to see them when he wakes up.”

“When will that be?”

“The doctors say it will probably be later today, when his body has had a bit of time to recover. They’ll want him to try and eat something.”

“And when do they expect they’ll be able to discharge him?” Mycroft asked.

“In a few days.”

Mycroft stood up. “I hope you’ve changed your mind, Sherlock. About being responsible for his after-care.”

“I haven’t,” Sherlock said, keeping his gaze fixed on Greg. “And I won’t.”

“Very well. I will put added security at Baker Street and at John and Mary’s home.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself too, Sherlock. If you’re really sure about doing this, you can’t neglect yourself. If you make yourself his primary contact, he’s going to need you. I’m really not sure if you’re ready for someone to rely on you that much.”

“I relied on him, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “For a few years, I relied on him. So it’s only right.”

“I see,” Mycroft murmured, collecting the books and journal articles. “Very well. Look after yourself, Sherlock, as well as him.”

Sherlock nodded and picked up the banana Mycroft had left for him. He ate it in silence before finishing his tea. He stroked the tips of his fingers against Greg’s knuckles.

“Morning Mr Holmes,” a nurse said as she walked in. “Has he woken up yet?”

“Not yet.”

The nurse collected the clipboard, her eyes flicking over it. “It looks as though everything’s improving. Please say, if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded. “I will.”

He waited for the nurse to leave before taking hold of Greg’s hand in his own. He sat in silence. It was just over an hour later when Greg’s eyelids began to flicker. Sherlock sat up straighter, leaning towards the bed. He kept hold of his hand.

Greg swallowed and opened his eyes. They widened for a moment, a panicked gaze on his face.

“You’re safe,” Sherlock said quickly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re in hospital.”

Greg turned his head to look at him, frowning. “I don’t remember,” he said, wincing and touching his throat. It must be dry, Sherlock realised. He stood up and poured him a glass of water. Greg took it from him.

“Small sips,” Sherlock said.

Greg ignored him and downed half the glass. “I don’t remember much after…” He frowned. His eyes flicked around the room, his brows furrowed.

“Don’t force it,” Sherlock said. “Just know you’re in a hospital and you’re safe.”

“How long have I been here?”

“About 14 hours. Not long.”

Greg peered at him. “How long have you been here?”

“The same.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“When are they letting me leave?”

“Maybe the day after tomorrow.”

Greg began to sit up, lifting his arm to look for his watch but finding it gone. It had been taken by the kidnapper. Mycroft’s agents had found it in a box and it was in storage as evidence. “It’s too long, I need to get out of here,” Greg said.

“Lestrade. Do you remember any of what happened?”

Greg frowned. “I was…” He pressed his lips together, his face turning pale. “God,” he muttered.

Sherlock silently cursed himself for asking. “You’re safe now,” he said quickly.

Greg didn’t say much for the rest of the day. He ate his food and watched the TV. He didn’t question that Sherlock remained beside his bed. Sherlock left in the evening so he could go to Baker Street and shower. John had put the bedding on, put Greg’s clothes in the drawers and the cupboard and had left a few pictures of his daughter around the place.

Sherlock spent some time clearing the living room and kitchen so it would be clean enough for when Greg arrived.

He wasn’t entirely sure about having a roommate again. John had spoiled him for roommates, but if it had to be anyone, he supposed Greg wouldn’t be too bad. Besides, since John had married, the flat was far too silent. It would be nice to have someone around again.

When he returned to the hospital, he found Greg up on the edge of his bed in his clothes. He pointed at Sherlock. “Take me home,” he said.

Sherlock frowned. “You’re not supposed to be leaving yet.”

“Tough. I’ve already signed the discharge papers.”

Sherlock frowned and crossed his arms. “Fine. But you’re staying at Baker Street.”

“Like hell I am, Sherlock,” Greg muttered. “I’m fine. I don’t need your concern. It’s really nice, okay? And I appreciate it, but you can drop the act now. I’m going home.”

“No.”

“Sherlock,” Greg warned.

“Just for a few days,” Sherlock said. “Just until we both know you’re better.”

“For God’s sake,” Greg muttered. “This is ridiculous.” He stood up and gripped the table to steady himself. “Shit.”

“What?”

“The world’s a bit… spinning a bit.”

“Because you’ve still not eaten enough,” Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. He picked up Greg’s bag, swinging it over his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around his waist. “You’re coming to Baker Street.”

“Fine,” Greg conceded. “Fine.”

If Greg was shocked to find his clothes in John’s old room, he didn’t say anything. He took himself to bed and left Sherlock to carry out more research on PTSD on his laptop.

For the first four days, Sherlock was left to wonder what Mycroft and John were fussing about. Greg had been told to take a month off work at least, but he was already planning his return the following week, catching up with Donovan on the phone.

He didn’t leave the flat, but he was happy enough to cook dinner and sit watching TV or read while Sherlock carried out experiments or solved cases via email.

On the fifth night, Sherlock had just closed his bedroom door. It was gone 2am and Greg had been in bed for a few hours. Sherlock swapped his shirt for a loose-fitting t-shirt and was just about to leave to brush his teeth when he heard a yell. He frowned, lifting his head.

He heard nothing more and wandered out for the bathroom. There was another shout. He turned and walked straight out, heading up to the spare room.

“Lestrade?” he called out, not bothering to think about whether he might wake up Mrs Hudson or not.

He quietly opened the door. Greg was sat up in bed, his legs pulled to his chest, his head buried in his hands.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock murmured, walking towards him.

“I remember,” he muttered. “Christ, I remember.”

Sherlock took a seat beside him on the bed. “What happened?” he asked.

“I had a nightmare. A man, he was…” Greg shook his head. “Jesus.” He lifted his head and wiped his eyes.

“It’s normal,” Sherlock said, watching him closely. “Nightmares are normal.”

“Normal for what, exactly?” Greg snapped. “Normal for someone locked in a room for 16 days, thinking they were going to spend their life like that?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. Just get out.”

Sherlock widened his eyes. He wanted to help, he wanted to… “Lestrade-” he said, reaching a hesitant out towards him.

“Just get out,” Greg snapped. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock wavered for a moment before shuffling out of his room and closing the door. He sat down on his bed and read up about PTSD for a while longer, until he was too tired to do anything but sleep.

The incident from that night wasn’t mentioned, but Greg decided not to go straight back to work as he had planned.

Sherlock went out on a Tuesday afternoon to talk to a potential client. Sherlock had offered for someone - Molly, Mrs Hudson, someone - to come and stay with Greg but he had rolled his eyes and said he was a big boy and could take care of himself.

Sherlock and John spent time talking to the client, solved the case three hours later and celebrated with a coffee at Speedy’s.

John said he wanted to see how Greg was doing, so they wandered up the stairs together, discussing how they’d work on cases once Mary had the baby. Sherlock turned the key and opened the door.

“Lestrade?” he called, slipping his coat off.

He looked around the room until he saw him on the floor, huddled in the corner of the kitchen, his knees pulled up to his chest. Shaking.

“Sherlock,” John muttered, taking a step forward.

Sherlock held an arm out to stop him. “Go home, John,” he said. “I’ve got this.”

“Sherlock…”

“Really, John. Please. We don’t want to crowd him.”

John nodded reluctantly. “I’ll call you,” he said as he walked out and closed the door.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began to walk slowly towards him. The sight of the defeated figure on the floor made his heart ache. Greg didn’t look up at him, his hands trembling. Sherlock took a seat beside him on the floor. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“Sodding cinnamon,” Greg muttered. And then he dropped his face into his hands, his body suddenly wracked by sobs. Sherlock hesitated for a second, clueless. He was struck by the thought that he really shouldn’t have done this. He really was not cut out for this at all.

But he shuffled closer, lifting his arm. It hovered there between them for a moment, before he finally wrapped an arm around Greg’s shoulders. He leaned into him, resting his chin on Greg’s other shoulder. He closed his eyes, trying to make soothing sounds, but it didn’t come naturally to him.

Gratefully, after a while, Greg stopped gasping for breath. His body still shook, but he wiped away the tears.

“Cinnamon,” Greg murmured after a while. “Every sodding morning. They gave me cinnamon buns.”

Sherlock frowned and looked up at the kitchen counter. There were some fresh buns on the side, probably brought round by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock let out a sigh and rubbed his face. One sight, one smell was probably enough to trigger every horrible memory of those 16 days.

Once he’d got Greg over to the sofa, Sherlock carried the offending buns outside and threw them out. He popped round to Mrs Hudson on the way back in and thanked her for the food, but told her Greg was allergic to cinnamon. She promised to make something else next time. Perhaps a cake. Sherlock kissed her cheek and returned to the flat.

In the days that followed, Greg hardly said a word. He stayed in bed, only leaving it for food or to use the bathroom. Sherlock took time to study him during those brief moments. He wasn’t losing weight, but he certainly wasn’t putting it on either. Sherlock didn’t say much to him, and trusted Greg to do the best for himself.

But he couldn’t leave it that way forever. He cooked a three-course meal one night. He’d always been good at cooking, but loathed to get involved in it. But he prepared some smoked salmon to start, steak with a red wine jus for dinner and chocolate mousse for dessert.

Greg had come downstairs midway through the preparations. “Are you… are you cooking?” he asked, his voice disbelieving.

Sherlock smiled. “I am. So put on your smartest shirt and we’ll eat this at the table.”

Greg still stared at him. “You’re cooking.”

“Obviously.”

Greg paused for a moment and Sherlock continued to stir the sauce. “Can. Can I help?” Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded to him and smiled. “Come and be my assistant,” he said. “You have to stir this, and make sure the temperature doesn’t go over 40 degrees.” He pointed to the thermometer.

“This is all very technical,” Greg muttered with a smile.

Sherlock chuckled and turned his attention to the mousse. “Did you really expect anything else?” he asked.

“I didn’t expect any of this, that’s for sure.”

Sherlock turned the radio on, and they worked together in silence, Greg doing the chopping and the stirring while Sherlock took charge of ingredients.

Over dinner, they discussed John and Mary’s baby-to-be and Greg’s plans to go back to work at the beginning of February. Sherlock didn’t try to talk him out of it, but he wasn’t convinced it was a good idea.

Some nights, Sherlock sat outside Greg’s room and heard him relive everything in his nightmares. He listened to the tortured screams, the heavy breathing and the desperate shouts for help.

And though he wished he could walk in and pull Greg from his inner torture, he was terrified it would do more harm than good to show Greg he knew just how afraid he was.

Mrs Watson gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

Once she was finally home, Sherlock and Greg took a taxi to the Watsons’ flat. Sherlock was watching out of the window, texting a few clients and John. He grinned and held out his phone to show Greg a picture of young baby Watson.

Greg took it and smiled. “Cute,” he murmured. “People might say you’re the besotted one.”

Sherlock took the phone back. “She provides a lot of opportunity for experiments,” he said.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Uh huh?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose she has other endearing qualities,” he muttered.

Greg smiled at him and turned to watch out of the window. Around 15 minutes later, they were pulling into the Watsons’ road. “Here we go,” Sherlock murmured.

A shaky breath from beside him drew his attention away from the window. Greg was holding onto his knees, his chest beginning to heave as he breathed harder and faster. Panic attack. “Stop!” Sherlock shouted at the driver, pulling some cash out of his wallet and throwing it onto the front seat. He opened the door and ran around to the other side of the cab.

He unfastened Greg’s seatbelt. His breathing was shallow and laboured, eyes wide and panicked. Sherlock helped him out, leading him over to a garden wall. “Look at me,” he said. “Breathe with me.” Sherlock took a deep breath in to show him. “Do this. Come on.”

He held Greg’s shoulders, and was relieved to see the other man trying to copy him. “That’s it,” Sherlock murmured. “In. And then out. You’re okay.”

After several minutes, Greg had got his breathing back under control. Sherlock nodded at him. “That’s good,” he said.

Greg turned and looked down the road. “Let’s just…” He nodded towards John and Mary’s home, his voice trembling.

Sherlock nodded and walked beside him, keeping a close eye on him. John let them in and gave them both a firm handshake. Mary was sitting in a chair, the new baby in her arms.

From beside him, Sherlock saw Greg visibly relax for the first time.

“I’ll make some teas,” John said, walking through to the kitchen.

“Do you want to hold her?” Mary asked them both.

“In a minute,” Sherlock said, turning to follow John.

“Come and hold her,” he heard Mary tell Greg.

Sherlock closed the kitchen door, rubbing his face. He was more shaken by Greg’s panic attack than he wanted to admit to himself. He took a deep breath and shook it out of his thoughts.

“How are you holding up?” John asked as he turned the kettle on.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, letting out a soft sigh. “I’m fine.”

“You know if you need anything, you just have to give me a call.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know.”

“How is he?”

“It was the first time leaving the house today,” Sherlock said. “He had a panic attack in the taxi. He has nightmares. I suppose at the moment, it’s not as bad as it could be. He wasn’t eating much, but we seem to have improved that.”

“How did you do that?” John asked.

“We’ve started cooking dinner together.” John turned to him and stared. Sherlock laughed. “Don’t look at me like that. I know how to cook. I just thought he’d start talking about it by now. Mycroft got him a counsellor who comes round to Baker Street so he doesn’t have to go out. But I don’t know how long it’ll last. He can’t stand her.”

“It’s normal, I think,” John said. “That he doesn’t want to discuss it.” He handed Sherlock two mugs. “Take these to Mary and Greg for me.”

Sherlock huffed but took them out anyway. He smiled when he saw Greg sat on the couch, Baby Watson in his arms. He looked more relaxed than he had done since Sherlock had taken him in. Sherlock handed Mary a tea and put the other down on the table. He sat down beside Greg on the sofa.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Greg said, smiling down at her.

“She’s… very pink,” Sherlock said with a frown.

Mary laughed. “That’s a good sign,” she said. “She’s got John’s grumpy face down like a pro.”

Sherlock reached out and touched her tiny fingers with one of his own. He glanced up at Greg’s face and saw his smile falter a little. Whether it was being away from the safety of Baker Street, or being so close to child who must have reminded Greg of his own, Sherlock knew the signs well enough. Greg was nearing a breakdown and Sherlock knew to give him space.

“Mary?” Sherlock asked. “Will you take her?”

“Oh…” She frowned and stood up, walking over to take her child out of Greg’s arms. Sherlock angled his body in towards him, reaching out and touching his arm. “Breathe,” he murmured. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg muttered as his eyes filled with tears, pulling himself up from the sofa and walking out of the room. He closed the door behind him, and Sherlock heard the locking of the bathroom door.

“Oh poor love,” Mary murmured, frowning. “How’s he doing?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. He stared at the living room door, considering going to find him. But the overwhelming need to give him space won in the end.

Greg rejoined them 15 minutes later, but he was quiet, spending a lot of time gazing out of the window. When they got back to Baker Street, he went straight to his room. Sherlock slumped onto the sofa, leaning back to access his mind palace to try and make sense of everything that was going on in the other man’s head. Sherlock felt defeated. Uncertain. Like they were going round in circles. He wasn’t cut out for this at all, and he was beginning to feel as though he’d failed.

Sherlock was woken by a clatter in the kitchen. He jumped out of bed, not bothering to pull his dressing gown on. He found Greg standing by the worktop, frowning down at the microwave.

“Greg?” Sherlock asked, stepping closer. When that got no reaction, he tried another tack. “Greg?”

Nothing. No response. Almost as though he was… sleepwalking. Sherlock swore under his breath. He walked over and wrapped an arm around Greg’s shoulders, beginning to steer him out of the room. “Come on,” he said. “Back to bed with you.”

He sleepwalked for five nights, and although it was a hassle for Sherlock to collect him every night and steer him back to bed, he didn’t do anything too dangerous. That was, until the sixth night. Sherlock found him trying to open the living room window, claiming he’d finally found an escape route from that building. An escape route away from the noises and the flickering lights. Sherlock had to pull him away and Greg fought him and he swung and hit Sherlock hard around the face.

Then he woke up.

He stared at Sherlock, who held his face in his hand, wincing in pain.

“Oh god,” Greg muttered, taking two abrupt steps backwards.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said, opening his mouth and testing his jaw. “Your hand will hurt more than my face.”

Greg sunk down onto the sofa. He dropped his head into his hands. “What is wrong with me?” he whispered, shaking his head. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No. No, you’re safer here than at home.”

“But I just…”

Sherlock held his hands out. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.” Ignoring the pain, Sherlock took a seat beside him. “What can I do?”

Greg shook his head, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I just need the memories to stop,” he whispered. “Every time I close my eyes. Every time I hear a bang. I can’t even sleep without the lights on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared down at Greg’s trembling hands. He saw shame in Greg’s posture. And that hurt, because it wasn’t his fault. He had done nothing wrong.

Sherlock reached out and took hold of one of his hands. “It’s normal,” he said. “But it can get better.”

“I don’t know how.”

“We’ll find a way.”

Greg finally went up to bed and Sherlock dropped his head into his hands. He felt his own tears threaten at the corners of his eyes. Seeing that strong man so defeated was beginning to kill him too. He kept it together, because his own pain was nothing compared to Greg’s.

The next night, Sherlock locked Greg into his bedroom at his request so he could not sleepwalk into the living room or kitchen. The window was bolted shut and there was no way he was getting out.

Sherlock had a quiet night. At 7am, he opened the door to Greg’s room. He found him lying on a mattress on the floor, curled up in a ball and shaking without the covers on. Just as Sherlock had found him in that printing press all those months ago.

Silently, Sherlock lay down beside him, pulling the covers off the bed and wrapping it over them both. Holding Greg’s hands in his own, it took two hours to convince him that he was safe. Sherlock felt as though his heart was breaking.

Sherlock took some time out a few times a week. While he was out, Mrs Hudson, John, Mary or Molly went around to keep an eye on Greg so he was never alone.

Just as Mary was leaving one afternoon, she touched Sherlock’s arm. “Does he always do that?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Stay in his room all day?”

Sherlock frowned. “No, usually he watches TV, or he reads a book on the sofa. He makes dinner a lot too. Why?”

“Well, it’s just that I’ve been round with the baby three times now and he always hides himself in his room. John said he does the same with him, and we think it’s not good for him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at her. “He doesn’t do that when I’m here.”

Mary frowned. “Do you think… do you think he only feels safe when you’re here?”

“Oh god, I hope not.”

Mary squeezed his shoulder. “We knew this would be hard. Talk to him?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Just remind him we’re all supporting him too, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded and watched her leave. An hour later, Greg was downstairs watching television and helping Sherlock to make dinner. Sherlock didn’t mention the conversation with Mary, hoping it might get better.

“Sally wants me to join her for a coffee,” Greg said one afternoon. It was spring now, four months after those 16 days which had changed both their lives. Greg was still not back at work, though he was on medication. It didn’t seem to be curing the nightmares, but it seemed to be making his day to day life easier, and that was enough for Sherlock to convince him the pills were worthwhile.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. That would be good, he thought. Greg hadn’t left the building since they saw Mary’s baby. “You should,” he said.

Greg pulled a face. “I don’t know.”

“It’s only a coffee,” Sherlock pointed out.

“What if I have another panic attack?”

“If you live like that, you’ll never go out. Try.”

The day arrived. Sherlock glanced at his watch. Greg was due to go out in half an hour, but he hadn’t left his bedroom. Sherlock found him in bed, his phone held in trembling hands. Sherlock took a seat beside him and took hold of his phone.

“Have you cancelled it yet?” Sherlock asked.

“No.”

“Good. Then get up and have a shower.”

Greg looked at him with pleading eyes. “Sherlock…”

“Please. Please, just try and go out. I think you need it.”

Sherlock waited in Greg’s room until he’d collected his clothes and went to use the shower. Sally came round at the time she’d scheduled, frowning as Sherlock answered the door. “He up?” she asked.

“Just showering,” Sherlock said, heading back towards his laptop.

“He wanted to cancel, didn’t he?” Sally said, sitting down on the sofa.

“Yep. Where are you taking him?”

“Just to Speedy’s,” Sally said. “It was hard enough convincing him to go out so… I thought we’d stay nearby. How’s he holding up?”

Sherlock gave a small shrug. “We had a good night last night. He slept right through.”

“Did you?” Sally asked. “You look shattered.”

Sherlock frowned a bit, and nodded. “I am,” he admitted.

Greg emerged, putting on a fake smile. He hid his shaking hands in his coat pockets. Sherlock nodded at him. “You’re fine,” he murmured into Greg’s ear as he held the front door open for them both. “I’ll be right here.”

He waited until they were out of view before closing the door. He text John, who arrived only half an hour later.

“How are you holding up?” John asked.

“Tired,” Sherlock said. “Some days are fine and then… he’s not recovering as quickly as I expected.”

John nodded. “It’s going to take time.”

“I don’t know what he needs. I think Mycroft was right. Perhaps I wasn’t the best person to do this.”

“He does seem to be getting better, Sherlock. He looks healthier.”

“Today’s only the second time he’s gone out since it happened,” Sherlock said. “He hasn’t left since the baby. It’s been months since then.”

“Then today is progress,” John said with a smile.

Greg seemed in a good mood when he got back with Sally. She said goodbye to him and told him to keep in touch. Sherlock held the door open for her as she left. “Can I have a word?” she asked quietly.

Sherlock nodded and followed her out, closing the door. “Has he seen Milly?” Sally asked.

Milly? Sherlock thought he should know that name, but he couldn’t think why. “Who?” he asked.

Sally rolled her eyes, but kept her comments to herself. “His daughter.”

Oh. “Oh. No.”

Sally sighed and retrieved her phone. “Okay. Well, I think it’ll help. Take down this number. This is Emma, his ex-wife’s number.”

Sherlock took his phone out and copied it into his contacts.

“She’s really nice and I think she’ll bring Milly round,” Sally continued. “Apparently she’s told her Greg’s been away on a trip for work and has been unwell. But I think Milly misses him like crazy.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“If you need me to take care of him for a few days, you only have to ask,” Sally offered.

“Thanks but… I think he needs me.”

Sally nodded. “I know. Well, you know where I am.”

Sherlock called Emma as soon as Sally left. She answered with a bright-sounding voice. “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh! Sherlock,” Emma said. “Oh, how is he?”

“He’s…” Sherlock frowned. There wasn’t enough time in the day to explain how Greg was. “He’s coping,” he chose to say.

“How can I help?” Emma asked.

“I think he needs to see Milly.”

“Oh finally,” she replied. “I’ve been trying to convince him for months. When? The sooner the better, she misses him so much.”

“This week?” Sherlock asked.

“I can bring her round tomorrow?”

Sherlock frowned. “Er. No. I think he might need a few days to recover.”

“Recover?” Emma asked. “Recover from what?”

“He went out today.”

“Oh, god. Is it that bad? He needs to recover from going out? Alright. Friday, after school. I’ll be round.”

When Friday came, Sherlock and Greg spent the day child-proofing 221b. Greg seemed brighter, glad to have something to do and excited to see his daughter.

When Emma brought her to the door, Greg showed the first real genuine smile Sherlock had seen since his ordeal. He pulled Milly into his arms and kissed her dark hair. She clung to him too, small arms wrapped around his neck. From where they stood, Emma and Sherlock watched his silent tears spill down his cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut.

Sherlock saw as Emma turned away, her bottom lip trembling too.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock whispered to her. “I’m taking care of him.”

She wiped her eyes and nodded, turning back to Greg. “Look after each other,” she said. “I’ll see you later, Milly.”

“Bye, mummy!” she called, still wrapped up in her father’s arms.

Greg never showed his daughter his tears. He’d wiped them away by the time he finally released her, but he never let go of her, staring at her like she was some sort of miracle.

“This is Sherlock,” he said, holding her hand.

Sherlock smiled and held his hand out to her to shake. “Hello, Milly,” he said.

“Hi, Sherl,” she replied with a smile. She shook his hand. “How do you do?”

Sherlock laughed. “I’m fine. How do you do?”

“I’m fine too.”

Greg grinned and picked her up, spinning her round in circles until she shrieked and laughed. Sherlock watched with a smile, taking a seat on the sofa.

Sherlock had collected all his board games, leaving them in a pile on the table. Milly selected Buckaroo, and she and Greg sat down on the floor, Milly in her dad’s lap.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Greg said, grinning at him. “Join in.”

Playfully rolling his eyes, Sherlock lowered himself to the floor. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I get to go first.”

Milly laughed and pushed the guitar piece in his direction.

“Oh, the guitar’s hard,” Greg said with a laugh.

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward, carefully putting it onto the donkey. The game continued until Greg lost, Milly and Sherlock giving each other a high-five.

Sherlock watched with a fond smile as Greg tickled his daughter, making her squeal with laughter.

They played Hungry Hippos after, and Sherlock and Greg let Milly win. When Greg got up to use the bathroom, she tilted her head at Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“Why do you have all these children games?” she asked. “Do you have children?”

“No.”

“Then why do you have the games?”

Sherlock studied her, frowning. Children asked such inane questions, he thought. “Because I like playing them.”

“Who do you play with?” Milly asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say he didn’t play with anyone, not anymore.

“He plays with me, don’t you, Sherlock?” Greg said, walking out and taking a seat beside his daughter. Milly immediately reclaimed her seat on his lap.

Sherlock cooked dinner while Milly and Greg watched television together. They were eating when Greg received a call from Emma to ask if Milly would like to stay the night.

“She can stay in my room,” Sherlock murmured. “I have an experiment I want to work on anyway.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asked.

“Of course.”

Milly stayed up long past her bedtime, curled up on the sofa with Greg while Sherlock worked on his laptop. Eventually, Greg carried her to bed, tucking her up under Sherlock’s covers.

“You look exhausted too,” Sherlock pointed out to him.

Greg smiled and nodded. “I am. I’m going to head to bed too.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Thank you. And thanks. For sorting today out.”

Sherlock nodded, noting his smile and relaxed shoulders.“You look better because of it.”

Greg nodded. “I feel it,” he said. “I shouldn’t have avoided her for so long.”

“Children are resilient,” Sherlock said.

“You like her,” Greg said with a grin.

Sherlock couldn’t hide the smile on his face. “Shut up and go to bed,” he said.

Greg laughed and did just that.

A few hours later, Sherlock heard the shuffling of covers and small feet on the floor. He looked up to see Milly standing in the doorway.

“Why are you awake?” Sherlock asked her.

“I had a bad dream.”

“Do you need anything?” he asked.

“No. Thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll take you back to bed.”

She nodded, and let Sherlock take her hand. He took her back to his room and tucked her back in.

“Stay here,” she murmured, not letting go of his hand.

Sherlock sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I will.”

“Where’s daddy?” Milly asked.

“He’s sleeping.”

“Mummy said daddy got very sick,” Milly muttered, a frown between her dark eyes. They were so like Greg’s, those eyes. “Mummy said he needs lots of love and hugs so he can feel better again. So I gave him lots of hugs. But what happens the rest of the time?”

“The rest of the time?” Sherlock asked.

“When I’m not here.”

Sherlock frowned. “Oh.” He didn’t know what to say to her. He wasn’t used to trying to comfort six-year-old children who were far more observant than their years suggested they should be.

“Mummy has a boyfriend to give her hugs… but daddy doesn’t have a girlfriend and… maybe he’s lonely?”

“I look after him,” Sherlock murmured.

“Do you give him hugs?”

Not enough, Sherlock thought, wondering if perhaps physical contact might help more than he’d realised. “Sometimes,” he said. “When he wants them.”

“Good. Sherl, are you a superhero?”

Sherlock stared at her, bemused. “No.”

“Daddy used to tell the stories… they were about Super Detective Sherlock Holmes. They were my favourites. You always solved the mysteries.”

“What mysteries?”

“The mystery of the floating rabbit. Or the… the…” She yawned, scrunching up her nose. “The case of the missing painting. And you found the bad monkey who stole the crown jewels.” She closed her eyes. “Daddy thinks you’re a very good superhero.”

“Your daddy’s very special too.”

“He’s not a superhero, he’s a policeman!” she said, squealing with laughter before yawning again.

Sherlock smiled down at her. “Yes, he is a policeman. And they’re the best superheroes because they don’t just solve the mysteries. They protect everybody too.”

“But… but… who will protect him?” Milly asked, staring up at him.

Sherlock reached out and stroked her hair. “I will, Milly,” he promised.

“Thank you.”

“Go to sleep now.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Sherlock stayed with her until her breathing evened out, before carefully getting up and closing the door.

“Hey,” Greg said from the kitchen. “She okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yeah, she had a nightmare, but she’s asleep again now.”

“Thank you. You alright?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, turning to the kitchen table to study the eyeballs. “My experiment will take another hour.”

“I’m making a cup of tea, do you want one?”

“Fine. Yes.”

He sat down on the sofa while Greg made them each a cup. Sherlock studied him. His shoulders were tensed. He swore as he spilled some water as he tried to fill their cups, his hands shaking.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, as he got up to help. Greg let him take over without protest.

“Got woken up by the bangs.”

Sherlock frowned. “Bangs?” he asked.

“Yeah, really, really loud bangs,” Greg explained. “Surprised you didn’t hear them.”

Sherlock bit his lip, stirring the cups.

“Oh,” Greg muttered. “Shit. They weren’t real, were they?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, looking at him. “I doubt it.”

“Shit.”

“It’s alright. No one expects you to be better.”

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. “Yeah, but I do. Especially when she’s in the house. Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to look after her, not all night.”

“I’m here,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yeah, but, I’m her dad. I’m supposed to be protecting her from everything. You shouldn’t have to protect her from me when I’m imagining things or…”

Sherlock turned to look at him, reaching out and holding his arms. “Greg. She’s safe here. I am your first line of defence.”

“And offence,” Greg muttered.

Sherlock held his eyes. “Yeah. She’s fine. Better than fine.”

“Can I help with the experiment?”

Sherlock smiled and let go of him. “There’s nothing to do. But you can tell me about the stories of Super Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh God, she didn’t tell you about that?” Greg asked with a laugh as they walked back to the sofa.

“Afraid so.”

Greg snorted and took a seat, accepting his mug from Sherlock. “They were just stories.”

“Apparently her favourites.”

“Zip it,” Greg said with a grin.

“The mystery of the floating rabbit, Greg? Really?”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock continued to grin back at him. “I particularly liked the story of the monkey who stole the crown jewels.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Course you do. Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“I told her you always wore a black cape.”

Sherlock frowned. “A cape?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would you do that? I have outstanding taste in coats, not capes.”

Greg grinned. “Yeah, but superheroes wear capes. And tights.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Oh God, you didn’t tell her I wore tights?”

Greg laughed. “No, I didn’t tell her that. You’re safe.”

Sherlock laughed too, and they sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Feels like two steps forward, six steps back,” Greg said after a while. “You know, the pills have helped, but not with the nightmares.”

“I know.”

“Days like this… feels like it did before it happened. And then I lie down and… It feels so alone. I thought I’d never see my little girl again. And she’s so…” He shook his head.

Sherlock reached out and touched his arm. “She’s good,” Sherlock said.

“I know. I know. It’s not like Emma’s tried to keep her away. She kept telling me to see her.”

“Stop blaming yourself,” Sherlock said. “She’s here now, and she’s enjoyed every minute. So, now you can do this even more.”

Greg nodded, sitting back against the sofa. “Thank you for all this,” he said, turning his head and looking at Sherlock. “Organising her to come round.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

He watched as Greg got up, returning to his bed. Sherlock stayed up to monitor his experiment.

In the morning, Sherlock served Milly cereal while Greg sat with her at the table, just sitting and smiling in her direction. They hugged for what felt like hours before Emma came to collect her.

And when she was gone, Greg took himself to the sofa, disconsolate. Sherlock sat beside him and they gazed at each other for a moment.

Sherlock held his hand out and Greg took it without a word, leaning back and closing his eyes.

Sherlock did the same, accessing his mind palace while he comforted Greg the only way he’d discovered how. By holding his hand.

It was 4.30pm one afternoon in summer before Sherlock realised he’d not seen Greg all day. The sun was beating down, hot and oppressive as it had been most of the month. Sherlock knocked on Greg’s door and opened it before he could answer.

He was lying under the covers, his eyes closed but he was clearly awake.

“You okay?” Sherlock asked, studying him.

“I couldn’t move,” Greg said. “It feels too hard.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled the thin sheets back, sliding in beside him. Greg had the fan on and the window open and the room was surprisingly cool.

“There’s not much happening at the moment anyway,” Sherlock said, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s too hot and all my cases are boring and the Watson baby is boring. She just cries.”

“I want to go back to work,” Greg said, lying on his side to face him. “But I can’t even go out of the door to buy milk.”

Sherlock turned to look at him. “Maybe we should try? Tomorrow we’ll go to the shops.”

Greg sighed. “I feel pathetic. My whole life is this room.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You have a whole life outside, and it’s still waiting for you, for when you’re ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?” Greg asked.

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes. He didn’t know how to truthfully answer that question.

He woke a few hours later, opening his eyes to find Greg was no longer beside him. He sat up just as Greg carried two cups of tea into the room before getting back under the covers.

They drank beside each other in comfortable silence.

“You’ll be ready,” Sherlock finally said as he put his mug down. “We need to make more effort to get you out, but we’ll get there.”

Greg sighed and nodded. “Some days…”

“I know,” Sherlock said, reaching for his arm. He found his hand instead, clasping it in both of his. He frowned a bit as a memory came to mind. Of Greg, lying on that mattress back on the printing press as he muttered ‘I should have said. I should have told you’.

Sherlock glanced at him. Dilated pupils. He moved one hand so he could feel his pulse. Elevated. The attraction was obvious. And it was nice, that it existed. But it was more than that, Sherlock suddenly realised.

“What did you want to tell me?” Sherlock asked, staring at him.

“What?”

“When we found you,” Sherlock said. “You said you needed to tell me something.”

“Nothing,” Greg said, shaking his head and avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock reached up and gently touched Greg’s jaw with two fingers. “What was it?” he asked.

“Don’t.”

“But…”

They both looked up as they heard a door close. “Sherlock?” John called out.

“You should go,” Greg murmured.

Sherlock wavered for a moment before getting up.

Baby steps. All the while, for the next few months, baby steps. They went to Speedy’s. And then they ventured to the shops. Sally took Greg to New Scotland Yard for one day and he came back with a sense of accomplishment. Some nights, he woke Sherlock up with his sleepwalking and his nightmares but he had begun to sleep through the nights more often.

One night, Sherlock had woken up to find Greg in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and sobbing. Sherlock had no comforting words for him, so had pulled him into his arms and held him while he cried. They never discussed those nights. It was easier to get through the day with small achievements rather than dwell on how he broke down in the evenings.

It was three months later when he and Greg took Milly to the Science Museum. Mycroft had provided a car so Greg didn’t need to try the tube (too loud).

Milly tried all the hands-on activities, holding both Sherlock and Greg’s hands as she led them from room to room with an excited skip.

Afterwards, they found My Old Dutch, a pancake house. Milly had chocolate sprinkles on hers, Greg went for traditional lemon and sugar and Sherlock chose maple syrup and butter. He had wanted apple and cinnamon, but he had never forgotten Greg’s terrible reaction to cinnamon all those months ago.

It was a messy meal and full of far too much sugar, but Greg was delighted, his eyes sparkling as he wiped Milly’s mouth with a serviette. He went to the bathroom and Milly turned her attention to Sherlock.

“Are you his boyfriend?” she asked.

Sherlock frowned at her, unsure of why she’d asked. “No.”

“I think he’d like it if you were,” she said. “I’d like it if you were too.”

Sherlock stared at her, not sure of what to say. Thankfully, Greg reappeared and they took her back home to Emma.

When they got back home, Greg sat dejectedly in his chair.

“Make dinner with me,” Sherlock said, trying to encourage him to get up to try and make him feel better.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I feel up for it.”

“Please?” Sherlock said. “You’re the best assistant I’ve got.”

Greg rolled his eyes at the attempt at flattery but stood up anyway. He did his usual jobs of chopping and stirring.

Sherlock held a spoon of sauce out to him. “Try this,” he said.

Greg grinned and wrapped his lips around it. He nodded, licking his lips. “I approve,” he said.

“Approve?” Sherlock repeated, pretending to take offence. “It’s a masterpiece!”

Greg laughed and nudged him. “It’s just sauce.”

“It is far more than just sauce.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another spoonful, sprinkling a tiny bit of sugar in it. “Try this one,” he said, holding the spoon out.

Greg rested his hand over Sherlock’s on the spoon, tasting the sauce. “Alright,” he said with a grin, not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. “It’s really good, I admit it.”

“Well, you did have a hand in making it,” Sherlock muttered, unable to tear his eyes away from Greg’s.

“I did,” Greg replied, his voice barely a whispered. Greg’s tongue flicked out to lick his lips. They stood there, holding hands on the spoon.

“Shouldn’t,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes flicking down to Greg’s lips.

“I’m not your patient,” Greg muttered. “But you should know-”

“-You love me,” Sherlock finished for him. “Yes, I know.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Course you do.”

Sherlock stepped forward and pressed their lips together before Greg had a chance to take the step back he was planning. The spoon clattered to the floor beside them as they moved closer to each other, one of Greg’s hands moving to tangle in Sherlock’s hair, the other wrapping around his waist.

Their lips moved together, small kiss followed by small kiss, some held for longer, others lasting just seconds. Sherlock rested both hands on Greg’s hips, closing his eyes and focusing on their mouths. He chased away his thoughts, his concerns. He focused solely on kissing him, until Greg began to move back.

Sherlock licked his lips. “Was that unpleasant?” he asked.

“No,” Greg said with an amused smile.

“Then why are you stopping?”

“The dinner’s burning.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “What?” He turned his head to the oven. “Oh god!” he said, dashing to turn the hob off. He lifted the pan and scooped out the burnt remnants of his sauce masterpiece.

Greg laughed and stared down at it. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Takeaway?” he asked, turning to face him.

Greg laughed and nodded, already reaching for his phone. After calling, they found themselves on the sofa, wrapped around each other and kissing like their lives depended on it.

That night, they fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed. Greg didn’t have a nightmare all night. Sherlock woke up wrapped up in his arms.

It was six weeks of kissing and cuddling and falling asleep together before they turned their relationship to a physical one.

Greg saw the scars on Sherlock’s back for the first time. Those ones from Serbia, those scars Sherlock had been too ashamed of to let anyone see.

Greg kissed them, touched them with delicate fingertips. They made love with the lights on, hot and desperate and then slow and sensual.

On Christmas Eve, they went to Mary and John’s house for dinner. They sat beside each other at the table, and Sherlock glanced at Greg. “We have something to say,” Sherlock finally said.

“We already know, love,” Mary said with a smile.

Sherlock frowned. “How?”

“Something to do with how you only sit about an inch apart?” John said with a grin. “Come on. Anyone can see it.”

Greg laughed and took hold of Sherlock’s hand. They both smiled at each other.

That night, they walked through Hyde Park for the Winter Wonderland event.

They sat drinking mulled wine by the ice skating rink, holding each other’s hands. There was a loud bang as a car backfired and Greg tensed, gripping Sherlock’s hand. But the panic attack Sherlock expected never came. Instead, he took a long deep breath and relaxed.

“Proud of you,” Sherlock whispered.

Greg turned to him and smiled. “Been 11 months,” he murmured.

Sherlock leaned forward and captured his lips in a chaste kiss. “And look at how well you are,” he said.

“Because of you.”

“No,” Sherlock whispered. “No, it’s because of you. Because you’re so strong.”

Greg swallowed and nodded. “Thank you.”

“I love you,” Sherlock said, leaning down to rest his head against Greg’s shoulder. He heard Greg’s surprised inhale of breath before he let out a gentle laugh, kissing the top of his head.

“Love you,” he replied.

They sat together, watching the ice skaters as though they didn’t have a care in the world. 


End file.
